


Windfall.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: The Westing Game - Ellen Raskin
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Gen, Post-Canon, maybe the real westing fortune was the friends we made along the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: Judge Ford, Turtle thought, would want to know.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Two things! Based on the age of Sam Westing in his obit and the age given for Julian Eastman at the end, I figure it's 20 years after the Westing Game. Since the book was published in 1978, I'm going with this taking place in 1998. Also, it's mentioned that J. J. Ford had just been appointed to the US Supreme Court, which I believe makes her Justice Ford technically, but Turtle thinks of her as Judge Ford, so I went with that.

None of the other Heirs came to the funeral. After all, why would they? Turtle was the only one who knew; she had kept Sandy's secret. But Sandy was dead, and it was Turtle's secret now. Turtle went to DC and called up Judge Ford and asked to meet for lunch.

It had been twenty years since the Game and all of the Heirs had moved on, some even onto other planes of existence. Most had sold their shares in Sunset Towers. Angela was the only one who had ever asked Turtle about why she had gone to work for Westing Paper Products, and she had asked it like Turtle was still trying to figure out the answer to the Game, like maybe Turtle had never gotten over losing.

And it was a fair question. Turtle should have moved on, too. She was the only one who hadn't. And, it was true, it had been twenty years since the death of Sam Westing -- the first two deaths of Sam Westing -- and why should the still-living Heirs think one way or another about it? Their connections to Sam Westing were brief, or transitory, or a mistake. 

Except Judge Ford.

And Judge Ford, Turtle thought, would want to know. If Turtle were Judge Ford, _she'd_ want to know. Sandy had arranged the Game so that Judge Ford would be stymied at every turn, because otherwise, she would have figured it out too soon. He had manipulated her and done it more personally than he'd manipulated everyone else. Turtle didn't feel like Sandy had done anything to _her_ that would make Turtle need to forgive him -- Sandy had even made sure she'd won -- but, well, if Turtle were Judge Ford, she'd want to know the answer.

So they talked over lunch about other things -- it had, after all, been a long time since Turtle was thirteen and addressing the court for the first time, and there were other things that were more important -- and then over coffee at the end, Turtle asked, "do you want to know the answer to the Westing Game?" Because Turtle wasn't Judge Ford, and Turtle knew now how to moderate herself, how not to fly off the handle and kick people in the shins. Sandy had taught her something of manipulation, but Turtle knew better than to make these kinds of decisions for other people. Sandy had never been kind, but Baba was; Baba had taught Turtle to never see people as just pieces to move around a board. 

Judge Ford didn't look all that surprised that Turtle had been the one to figure it out. She must have known for a while, Turtle thought, that Turtle had figured it out. "How about, instead, you tell me what made _you_ figure out the answer?"

And that made sense. There was that missing clue, after all. The one kept empty. "The heir who wins the windfall," Turtle recited dutifully, like they were back in Judge Ford's old apartment and the words were flashing through her mind like neon lights, "will be the one who finds _the fourth_."

Judge Ford was quiet for a long moment, staring off into space -- into the past -- then she put down her coffee cup. "Chris had mentioned in his last letter that Julian Eastman had died."

Turtle nodded. "I was with him when it happened." 

Judge Ford smiled gently. "Are you sure?" She sounded sympathetic, like this was Turtle's tragedy, like Turtle had been the only one to know Julian Eastman -- to know Sandy -- to know Sam Westing.

"Yes." Turtle was sure. She'd made sure, this time. She wasn't going to be fooled again. She wasn't going to let herself have hope and slowly let it drain from her every day she didn't see Sandy. And Judge Ford would understand; she was like Turtle. Neither of them would believe Sam Westing was really dead unless they had seen the body and known for sure that it wasn't a wax dummy or some other kind of trick. "He asked about everyone at the end. I lied about a few. He wanted Crow to pray for him."

Judge Ford picked up her coffee cup again and, like that, the moment, the past, was gone. Because, after all, Turtle was the only one who hadn't moved on. Judge Ford hadn't seen Sam Westing from the time she was twelve until the time he was Sandy. "Tell me about Alice," Judge Ford said. "Chris is always so proud of her."

So Turtle sat back and told Judge Ford about Alice, about her soccer tournaments, about how she was playing a lot of computer games but still made time to play chess with her aunt, how Alice had suggested they start playing chess over e-mail as a way to convince Turtle to buy Alice a computer of her own. 

For so long, Turtle had wanted someone to tell. She'd confided in Angela as much as she could, but that wasn't much, not while she was still keeping Sandy's secret. She couldn't tell anyone about how she thought Sandy had wanted Angela to win the Game when he'd been planning it; about how, instead of Angela, Turtle had eventually become his replacement for Violet, because Turtle liked business but Violet, and Angela, had other interests, ones Sandy didn't have, ones that Sandy didn't want to try to emphasize with, about how Turtle had sometimes wondered if maybe Sandy hadn't _cared_ enough about his daughter, about his older grand-niece, to learn to like the things they liked. How parental love could be unconditional, but it didn't mean you really loved the person your kids were. Turtle knew it could happen; Mom had taught both her daughters that before Sandy ever could. Sandy had loved Turtle, and Turtle had loved Sandy, but Turtle knew that if Sandy hadn't connected with any of the Heirs, he would have made sure that no one won the Game. He wasn't going to give his company to someone who didn't think like him. Sandy wasn't like that.

She could talk to people about how Sandy had manipulated everything and everyone, but she could never say the end of it all, about how Sandy was still alive, how he conducted everything both from in front of them and from behind the scenes. How he had enjoyed the Game, and how _Turtle_ had enjoyed the Game, and how Turtle didn't -- couldn't -- regret any of it. She didn't regret it at all. Sandy was a friend and a favorite uncle until the day he died, and Turtle was closer to Baba than she ever was to her own mother. Turtle's parents were happier than they'd been before the Game. Angela was happier than she ever would have been without the Game. Even Denton Deere wasn't as terrible as he'd been when Turtle was a teenager. And Alice... even if Alice never had that Sandy-desired head for business, Turtle still knew how to love her. How to support her. How to love Alice for herself, and not just as an extension of Turtle. Turtle had Baba to thank for that. Because Sandy had never taught her that. Because, Turtle thought, Sandy might never have learned.

All of the Heirs had moved on and made new lives. All of them but Turtle, they all thought, but Turtle had moved on, too, in her own way. Turtle had loved Sandy, but she wasn't going to be him. She wasn't going to play his kinds of games.

Chess was best, after all, when everyone knew it was just a game.


End file.
